


Siren

by mangacrack



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-War of Wrath, daeron is luthien's brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 07:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: A short encounter between Maglor and Daeron after the War of Wrath.
Relationships: Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Siren

In hindsight, he curses the day he runs into Maglor Fëanorian again. Beautiful songs teased his dreams for days, always staying out of hearing range and like a fool Daeron follow the music. He thought it would one of the Maia. Powerful and clear as the notes are, he could not dream of the songs belonging to one of the Eldar. 

When he first takes the sight in, Daeron still does not know whom he just stumbled across. 

"Good afternoon, Daeron," the figure greets him in a low voice without interrupting their play. "Or should I greet you as Prince of Doriath?" 

Daeron shudders. Between the soft light, the sun casts over the ocean and the alluring tune in his ears, he does not react with as much repulsion as he should. In fact, his feet sink deep into the sand as he etches closer. He should know better but music like this is too beautiful to pass by. 

"I have long stopped wearing that title, Maglor," Daeron answers. "Should I greet you as Prince of the Noldor as well?"

Maglor's fingers move over the harp-like instrument. He beckons Daeron to sit and the Sindar follows, trapped like a bird that was lured in by breadcrumbs. 

"That hardly fits my station. I am cast out and a stranger to my people," Maglor hums. It does not seem to bother him. 

Daeron studies the Noldorin Bard. He heard rumours about what happened to him. He asked around, simply out of old interested. Regardless of his deeds, Maglor's songs spread the camps of every race and not even the Valar could refute the truth of their contents. He suspects Maglor wrote a lot in the past decades, much like Daeron did. As Bards, it is their duty to record the events around them. 

Unlike Maglor, Daeron often tried to offer a little reprieve to the soldiers when he raised his voice. He sang of clean rivers glistening in the sun, of strawberries in a small bowl on a table, and of yellow flowers fighting against the last scraps of snow in front of a farmers house. 

"Your songs remain popular. They sing them in every pub. Soldiers holler your tunes when they drink, dying souls whisper your phrases, and widows hum melodies like it keeps them warm at night," Daeron says. 

The confidence in the Fëanorian throws him off. He expected him in an awful state, thin and worn. Instead, he finds Maglor in well-used but high-quality armour. The star on the chest plate stands out, proud though the scratch marks speak of forgotten battles. Maglor keeps his hair in a high-braid and it moves in the wind that comes from the sea. 

He does not look particularly sad or heartbroken. 

"It gives them comfort," Maglor answers. His eyes return to his instrument and Daeron feels the loss of the gaze in his soul. 

He is not sure who Maglor is talking about. Has he enough loyalty for his people left in his heart? Or does he speak to the ghosts of his family? 

Perhaps it does not matter either way. 

"Why am I here? What is your reason for calling me here?" Daeron asks. 

Honesty might be his best shot. He cannot figure out what Maglor wants from him. In a serious battle, he knows, he has little hope to survive. Unless he gets lucky and surprises the Noldorin Bard, he will only leave when Maglor lets him go. Despite the distance between them and the odd angle, Daeron caught sight of the sword, two daggers and a bow that lies abandoned in the sand. With an instrument in his hands, the Fëanorian is battle-trained enough to rip Daeron to shreds if he wishes. 

Unlike Daeron, who did not fight in the War of Wrath, Maglor did more than accompany the hosts. He fought alongside them and the soldiers did not care about the blood on his hands. If the talks around the campfires are true, most soldiers rathered served under a Fëanorian. 

_'They know how to survive,'_ was the most common answer Daeron got when he questioned the soldiers.  _'They fought more battles than anyone else and they are good enough to have walked away.'_

Not even the Sindar present disagreed. The shameful expression and the way they turned away their gaze said enough. 

"I was curious," Maglor says. His fingers do not even touch the strings. The instrument play anyway. "I heard you were still alive and wanted to get a look." 

The intensity in his grey eyes steals Daeron's breath away. Desire runs down his spine and touches forgotten regions. He reaches for his flute before he is aware of what he is doing. 

In a different world, Daeron once met Prince Makalaurë for the very first time. Back then he had been too proud to act on the feelings the Noldor stirred in him. He had not been ready to take up his offer and join him in song. 

He regretted declining the offer for the rest of his life. Daeron has a lot of regrets but this unfulfilled wish always weighed heavily on his shoulders. He surrendered his kingdom to his sister and her mortal husband. He gave up his title and said goodbye to his parents. His people had forgotten about him. 

Only Maglor remained. 

Maglor paused in his actions and waits for Daeron's decision. 

The Sindar is not blind - or deaf. There is only one way this afternoon is going to play out. 

_Please,_ Daeron thinks when he raises his flute and sets it onto his lips.  _Seduce me, my prince._

This night can only end with Daeron writhing in the Noldor's arms. The tent awaits them between the dunes. 

The music they create this night is going to follow Daeron for the rest of his life. 

  
  


  
  


  
  



End file.
